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Sherlock knew that the most fascinating element of John Hamish Watson was his ability to be absolutely unpredictable. He had a habit of defying all of Sherlock's expectations, and it thrilled the detective. Here, unable to see, unable to touch, he knew he could rely on John to surprise him.

A normal person would throw themselves into the fire, ravaging and pillaging the body so thoroughly offered. Would John?

He waited. And waited. And then he waited some more. John wasn't moving. He could smell him, near the foot of the bed, but he wasn't doing anything. Maybe he needed encouragement. For this to work, John would need to participate. Sherlock licked his lips slowly and rolled his hips with the motion, hoping to draw John in.

It started almost instantly, a heat that spread from his feet to his groin. The bed shifted around him- John was crawling over him without touching, letting the warmth of his body speak for itself. He lingered, and Sherlock felt his breath stirring the dark patch of hair near his cock. He managed not to make a sound.

Up it moved, until he felt John's breath on his chest. Now he was pressed against him, skin against skin, and Sherlock sucked in air.

"Nothing in your mouth means I can't kiss you again, doesn't it?"

"Not yet."

"That's a shame; I'd love to see what your mouth could do."

His voice came from beside Sherlock's ear; his lips brushed the skin, and it occurred to Sherlock that he hadn't even felt John shift. He trembled with desire. It was both chaste and filthy, an impossibility, but Sherlock loved it.

The pressure on his chest subsided as John moved again, trailing kisses down Sherlock's bare chest. He arched into them, eliciting a chuckle from John as he ran his tongue around Sherlock's navel.

"For a man so physically detached, you seem to be enjoying yourself."

John placed a hand on his thigh, pushing it apart as he moved on. A hot tongue along the curve of his hip finally pulled a sound from Sherlock, moaning as John's teeth grazed his skin. It was slow torture.

From nowhere, he felt something hot and wet against the cleft of his ass. Soft hair tickled his thigh as strong hands lifted his hips from the mattress. His senses narrowed until there was only John, his face buried in Sherlock, his tongue lapping languidly at the sensitive flesh of his anus. He was tracing letters, writing his name over and over. JohnJohnJohnJohn- Something unintelligible passed through Sherlock's pointed lips as he realized what John was writing. In his own way, John was marking him. His. Oh, god, it was incredibly hot, somehow hotter than the other filthy things he was doing with that tongue. Sherlock moved to wraps his fingers in John's hair, only to remember he was thoroughly bound. He groaned in frustration.

"John, that's... That's perfect..."

His voice had dropped an octave, impossibly deep, heavy with the sound of his arousal, his lust... As he spoke, John pushed deeper, until he was positively fucking him with his mouth. He increased his speed, swirling his tongue inside of Sherlock as the detective fought for breath. He knew he was writhing, knew he must look like a fool, but he didn't care. John was too far away for his scent to carry in the still room, so there was nothing to focus on but the feeling, pure and maddening. With one free hand, John caressed Sherlock's cock. It was a light touch, just a brush of the knuckles, but the friction was enough to send Sherlock's mind spinning.

"John, please, more. I need- I need more."

He wished he could glance at him, watch him bury his tongue inside him, watch him grin as he listened to Sherlock's responses, but he had asked for this. He wanted to touch his hair, his face, his erection. Wanted to make him moan, and squirm, and come with Sherlock's name on his lips...

But there'd be time for that later. Now was about giving John the time he needed to map, to conquer, while Sherlock catalogued sensation. And scent. God, he couldn't wait. It would require him surrendering wholly, this time at least, but he felt he could handle it. To capture the scent of John, sweaty and spent, in the purest possible state- it was worth more than anything filed away in his mind, his most precious gift. Thinking of it made him harder, swelling against the back of John's hand as the muscle twitched in anticipation. Yes, it would be worth the wait indeed. John could take all the time in the world; he wouldn't be able to fight his own need forever.

"This may hurt."

That was the only warning he received before John forced two slick fingers inside of him. White pain raced along his nerves; he gasped in shock. It faded as quickly as it had come, and John began to move. He pumped his wrist and curled his fingers, stretching Sherlock as he massaged his prostate. Behind the leather blindfold Sherlock saw stars, pleasure flooding every inch of him. Each thrust brought fresh bliss rolling through his body. John's knowledge of the human body was incredible. He knew exactly was he was doing.

Precome dripped down the head of his shaft, wet and warm, and John chuckled darkly. He must've been watching carefully.

"We'll take care of that soon, I promise. Just lean back and enjoy, Sherlock. After all, you did ask for this."

It was incredibly unfair how sexy John sounded, his soft voice filled with desire. Sherlock glared at his blindfold, trying to will it away with the force of his longing. Of course, it was useless. He hadn't wanted anything to muddle the data, to interrupt his study, but he hadn't counted on how distracting it would be under John's control, moving at John's pace, letting himself be fondled and penetrated while he was so helpless. Admittedly, he loved every minute of it.

He let his head fall back against the pillows, groaning as John leaned forward and licked a trail along his shaft.

"I want to draw this out, to make it excruciating for you... To possess every inch of your attention, to make you drown in me, it's the best gift I've ever received. That's the problem, though- I don't know how long I can last."

John was speaking near his groin, his hot breath nearly agonizing against the sensitive skin. He slipped his mouth down around the head, flicking his tongue around the flared edge with surprising skill. Sherlock moaned and arched his hips, trying to drive his cock deeper into John's warm throat. As his fingers worked in and out (three now, Christ), he worked his mouth up and down. Sherlock was sweating, shaking, fighting to keep his wits as the pleasure assaulted him. It was a tough battle.

Without warning John's mouth and fingers gone, leaving Sherlock empty and cold. He groaned in disappointment. Torture, he's torturing me, and I love it.

The bed dipped down with his weight. There was a wet slicking sound, and Sherlock could picture it- John's callused hands gliding over his erection, his eyes burning with arousal as he maps Sherlock's body with his eyes, licking his lips as he fantasizes...

John grabbed his hips roughly, lifting him off the mattress as he slipped his thighs underneath. The flesh-on-flesh contact was sensational, and Sherlock began to pant. The doctor was shifting, caressing Sherlock's stomach as he rubbed their cocks together. Frotting, Sherlock thought briefly,such a strange name for such a sensual thing, but any coherent sentences floating through his mind vanished as John stopped rutting against him and plunged his slick manhood inside of him.

"Sherlock," John gasped as he began to thrust, "god, you feel incredible!"

"Come to me, John. Up here."

He wrapped his legs tightly around the doctor's hips and pulled him forwards, sending him sprawling across his pale chest. His head came up to Sherlock's neck, and he began sinking his teeth into the pale skin of the man's collarbone as he pushed deeper. Sherlock moaned, bucking his hips into every one of John's thrusts, even as his nostrils began to flare. He drank in the man's scent, noticing the way it grew more intense the closer he came to the brink.

Sweat, obviously.

Shampoo, an off-brand, scented chemically with menthol.

Ginger, from tea, sweetened with milk. No sugar, enough in the mixture.

Freshly-laundered wool, softened with a dryer sheet.

The metallic tang of sex, nearly overwhelming.

Shaving cream, unscented, leaving a faintly mechanical trace on his skin.

And- THERE. There it is! The missing piece!

Sherlock drank in the aroma, he drowned in it, impregnating himself through his innermost pores, until he was full of John himself. He has said his name hundreds of times before, had seen John a hundred times before. He understood him, for all the time they spent together and everything he saw about the man. In the dim light of his bedroom he saw nothing, heard nothing, he felt nothing. He only smelled the pure, naked aroma of John rising around him, capturing him in the throes of their matched ecstasy.

"John," he managed to choke up, as if he were filled with it, as if buried in John to his neck, as if his throat were spilling over with him. It was that single word, which he understood with more clarity than ever, which managed to bring him back to himself before he lost control of his mind entirely.

As John spilled into him, biting his flesh, the new knowledge pushed him over the edge. He came, spattering his seed across John's strong stomach, whispering his name in a breathless baritone, digging his long fingers into the silk straps holding his wrists hostage. The world went white, his heart hammering in his chest as he sucked in air, letting himself dwell on his new olfactory experience. Bliss. It was pure bliss.

John managed to fumble the cloth strips open before collapsing on Sherlock's chest, panting, exhausted. Sherlock wrapped his tingling arms around his broad back, massaging the damp flesh, fighting not to gorge his senses with his scent- it would be too much, far too much for him to handle.

They lay entwined for what seemed like ages, relaxing, basking in the afterglow of their overindulgent sex. Sherlock didn't want to move, didn't want to lose the reassuring weight of John across his chest. He was so near, so overpowering, so...

His thoughts came to a halt as he noticed the aroma fading, forsaking him and his sensitive olfactory senses, teasing him as the last wisps disappeared quickly from his scrutinizing breaths.

This would not do, it would not do at all. He needed that scent, needed to recreate it, to capture it, to possess it. He would need to experiment, to find a way to make it solely his, forever.

He resolved to begin on the morrow.

At least he hadn't screamed.